


What Can Be Done

by abrassaxe



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Mister Hunter to the rescue, some depiction of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:04:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6234376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrassaxe/pseuds/abrassaxe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hunter arrives in time to rescue the little girl from the boar, on the way to Oedon Chapel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Can Be Done

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little piece I thought I'd dash off. I'd seen a comic suggesting an alternative to the little girl's fate and thought I'd write about it, myself. I've used my own Hunter for this, and I'm sorry there's not much room for squinting. If you're interested, you can learn a little bit more about Hawthorne [here](http://space-bysshe.tumblr.com/tagged/pointy-man). Thanks!

The lights are out when Hawthorne arrives at the house not far from Oedon Chapel. The little girl still hadn’t told him her name – and asking had slipped his mind – but he knows two things. First, she is now an orphan. Second, she is gone. Hawthorne can’t fathom what might have driven her out of doors on a night like this, but is certain that he has only a short time to find her, before she is lost forever. Death reigns in the streets of Yharnam, and only blood trails in its footsteps. And Hunters, perhaps. Hawthorne finds tatters of white fabric at the top of a ladder, likely snagged as the little girl climbed down. At the bottom, a behemoth with a brick in his fist mumbles something unintelligible and swings a little, at nothing. Hawthorne mistrusts miracles, even if he does not completely disbelieve in them, but surely it must have taken one for the child to slip by the beast below. For the Hunter, it is a different dance.  
  
He fires a shot from the top of the ladder, sliding down while the giant reels and rages. There’s no time to waste once his feet find stone. He lines up a second shot as his enemy hoists the brick over his shoulder. Sometimes this goes badly. Hawthorne tries not to think of the last time the heavy stone came down on him, crushing his ribcage. The blinding white shattering of bones. He anticipates the taste of iron, nonetheless. His shot catches the giant’s meaty fingers, breaking his grip on the brick. Then there is nothing left to do but press the advantage. Let the beast in. Hawthorne’s body sings with power until his marrow is white hot. His fingers turn to claws that rend flesh like rotten canvas. Then the air is thick with blood and in his ecstasy, Hawthorne nearly forgets the girl for a moment.  
  
“Revolting,” he hisses under his breath, flicking red from his hand. And he leaves the torn remains of the giant behind. The girl. The girl was clever enough to avoid the crows, but it’s only a guess that leads him down the next ladder in hopes that this is her path. Did she pause here, frightened of the height? Looking down is dizzying, but Hawthorne slides easily down, arriving at the bottom with a slight splash, and palms hot from the friction. Perhaps she did not notice the slithering corpses at the bottom of the third, and shortest, ladder. Hawthorne sees them, but no sign of their quarry. The corpses in the sewer are slow to drag themselves into range. Reanimation has given them no agility. They reach with gnarled fingers, but his stride is too brisk for them to snag their broken fingernails on the hem of his cloak. He hopes against hope that the child was able to take advantage of this, as well. He knows she must have run from them.  
  
His step quickens, the filth of the sewer splashing around his ankles. It is unspeakably disgusting, but Yharnam’s scum has worse permutations, and Hawthorne has no time for revulsion. He glimpses the little white-clad figure ahead in time to hear the boar scream from the depths of the tunnel.  
  
“ _Girl-child!_ ” There’s barely time to snatch her up in his arms before the lesioned monstrosity comes charging out of the dark, squealing for something to trample under its hooves. Hawthorne more throws than places the girl on the ladder just right of the tunnel mouth, and the boar’s tusks still graze his cloak. It tears clean, sparing him the momentary fear that he might be dragged by it. The girl, meanwhile, is shrieking. “Kindly _stay there_!” Whether or not the roar that comes out of him is enough to shock the child into obedience, Hawthorne hasn’t the time to verify. The Hunt is joined.  
  
The boar wheels around, snuffling and enraged, but not enough to put fear into its adversary. Hawthorne begins to hum to himself as he closes the distance between them, long fingers wrapping one by one around the hilt of his sword. A holy blade, they said. But there was nothing holy here. The blade fits into its sheath with a tremendous clanking of metal, and he hefts it, all one lethal piece as he approaches. The boar sucks in its breath and squeals, dissonant against Hawthorne’s gentle humming. It is still squealing as it charges. The timing is precarious, but familiar. His blade catches the corner of the boar’s mouth as it thunders by, shearing through the joint, into the throat. The scent of copper mingles with the stench of the sewers, spraying out of the wound. He can hear the boar choking. It’s difficult to wrench the blade free, but he manages, leaping nimbly back as the beast jerks its head. The deadly tusk passes so close that Hawthorne can feel the air on it. The little girl is crying.  
  
It might have saved him some strength to let the boar bleed to death, but when it screams again, and lunges, Hawthorne elects instead to end its misery. There’s still a song on his breath when the tip of his blade plunges into the roof of the boar’s mouth, sinking in until it finds the brain and pours death in. The animal’s body sags at once, the sudden weight jarring Hawthorne’s shoulders. He’s barely able to keep it from falling on him, guiding it artlessly to the ground. The filth splashes up onto his clothes, and gouts of blood adds further insult to injury as he wrenches his sword free.  
  
“Disgusting, isn’t it?” He steps around the wreck of the boar. “Are you all right?” The girl, still clinging to the ladder, nods. “Come now, girl, I'm afraid I can’t quite hear your head rattling,” Hawthorne chides.  
  
“I’m scared,” she says.  
  
“Nothing to more be afraid of, just now. You were heading to the chapel, were you?” She nods again, and Hawthorne raises an expectant brow.  
  
“Yes,” she says. Her face scrunches up as she considers. “Can you take me there?”  
  
“It would be my pleasure,” Hawthorne agrees. He parts his sword from his sheath. It’s not much farther, but it’s a fool who assumes that armament won’t be needed. “Climb on my back, if you don’t mind, and I’ll carry you.” The instruction is met with another scrunching of her face. “I’d hate for you to walk in this filth for any longer than you have already.” She looks at the sodden hem of her dress.  
  
“Okay.” It’s easy for her to clamber from the ladder, onto his back, wrapping her little arms around his neck.  
  
“You hold on tight. We’re going to hurry.” This time when she nods, he feels her chin brush the back of his neck. They proceed into the dark without another word. The boar, no doubt, had managed to keep its rivals well away from its den, which leaves the rest of the tunnel deserted.  
  
“Is this what my daddy does?” The girl asks. Her breath catches a little. “What he did…”  
  
“Yes. I imagine so,” Hawthorne answers. The truth is perhaps more complicated, and much of it is hidden. It’s difficult to tell without looking what the child makes of it, but she’s silent again as they emerge from the tunnel. Yharnam has an ungodly love of ladders that rivals its love of blood, and another awaits them. It takes some manoeuvring to get his sword bound to its sheath with the child on his back, but they manage. “Try not to look down,” he advises, “though I expect a brave little miss like you knows better than that, don’t you?”  
  
“Am I brave?”  
  
“Very brave. There aren’t many who would dare to step outside on a night like this.” There’s another lull as they make the long way up the ladder. Beasts ahead. He can smell them. Hear their gnashing teeth, their senseless murmuring. Not close enough that they’ll be spotted. Yet. The girl’s grip tightens.  
  
“I don’t feel very brave,” she whispers.  
  
“Then close your eyes. No need for you to look at all this rot. I’ll keep you safe.”  
  
Promises are a mistake at times like these, fragile as spun glass. Made for breaking. Hawthorne resolves himself to keep this one. “Hold tight, little miss. Tight as you can. Tighter.” Peering up over the ledge, he can see two. One armed with a torch and shield, and another one with a brick. They’re looking over the bridge, where even more are gathered. More than he can handle with a child clinging to his back. They’ll have to run. Hawthorne takes in his breath as he hurries the rest of the way up the ladder, swift as smoke, and just as silent. He’s past them, and halfway up the small stairway when he sees the light of two more torches. Evading them is simple enough, though something itches in him, whispers at him to rip them apart. Vile creatures. Blood-drunk and repulsive. Void of all sense.

  
_Beasts all over the shop…_

 

The tomb of Oedon is a welcome sight, albeit one that now recalls a struggle that still rattles in his bones. Hawthorne pats the girl’s linked hands, grasping so hard that the little knuckles are white.  
  
“Keep your eyes closed,” he murmurs. There’s no telling if she does. Or if she’ll recognize the beastly remains of what had once been her father, either way. Hawthorne was no Hunter of Hunters, who could offer the rites that his compatriot deserved, beyond a moment of prayer. And so Gascoigne lay there and decayed.

 

_You’ll be one of them… Sooner or later…_

 

"Mister Hunter?” Hawthorne takes in his breath at the sudden small voice in his ear. “Can we bring my sister to the chapel, too?” He sets his jaw, but an involuntary sigh leaves him even so.  
  
“Let’s get you there, first, hm? I can’t carry the both of you at once, and fend off the beasts.”  
  
“But what if… What if she’s gone out to look for me, and…”  
  
“I’ll find her, if I can.”  
  
“Like you found my mum and dad?” The question smarts, guilt prickling in his gut.  
  
“My apologies.” He pats her hands again, the knuckles now not so white. She suddenly feels quite heavy. “I failed to help them. My apologies.” His brow furrows, and under the bandages, his right eye itches. “I will do all that I’m able to bring your sister to safety,” he continues. “That may not be enough. But let’s get you inside. You’ve been brave enough for one night.” There’s not another peep from the girl for the last leg of their journey. Even when the Chapel-Dweller offers his greetings, she spares only the softest of hello’s in answer.  
  
“I-I-I-I’ll see she’s taken care of, I will,” the Dweller promises, wringing his long hands. Hawthorne kneels, letting his small passenger climb down at last. She smooths her dress, looking down at her dirty shoes before fixing her eyes – startling violet – on the Hunter.  
  
“My sister?” she asks.  
  
“If I can. I’d best get going.” He tips his hat, and turns to go back the way he’d come. By now, the other girl might have noticed her sibling’s absence, and might just as well have set out on her own… Something snags his cloak, and he turns to discover those startling little eyes are pinned on him again.  
  
“Be careful, Mister Hunter. And come back soon. Please.”  
  
“I’ll do my best.” This time, when he turns to go, the girl allows it. The absence of her weight on his back is curious, and lingers. It had not felt as if there was anyone truly relying on him, until just then. Just as it did not feel as if it was within his power to put an end to this night. Who could shift the stars? Could pull the sun up over the horizon? Such things remain beyond his strength. What he can manage, as little as that is, will have to do.


End file.
